


all the things lost

by daemons



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, a lot of swearing, depictions of panic attacks, guns and violence and ~~~spy things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-01
Updated: 2016-01-01
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:17:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 17,040
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5573986
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/daemons/pseuds/daemons
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Espionage couldn’t be personal. He’d been taught that rule from day one. You’re a machine. An highly intelligent weapon. Nothing was personal in the spy business.</p><p>It was Carey's own fault. He took responsibility for it. He messed up the number one rule. Don’t let it get personal. </p><p>or</p><p>Carey is an ex-spy running away from his issues. PK is his ex-boyfriend and quartermaster.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all the things lost

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lostlenore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lostlenore/gifts).



> merry christmas!!! im glad i finally got this finished, albeit a bit late. i hope you enjoy it!
> 
> : :
> 
> shoutout to gi [thesilverwitch](http://archiveofourown.org/users/thesilverwitch/pseuds/thesilverwitch) for her amazing beta-read (including the classic line: bowls don't stare sadly. they don't stare at all). thanks a heaps sis!!!
> 
> also shoutout to kelli for an early read through, and twitcrew for the constant cheerleading.
> 
> playlist for this fic can be found [here](http://8tracks.com/russianwinters/all-the-things-lost)
> 
> : :
> 
> warnings (with spoilers) at end of fic
> 
> disclaimer: this is meant for fun and is not intended to offend.

: : : :

**part i. retirement**

: : : :

 

Carey wakes up to the sound of banging on the roof of his apartment. 

The white plaster shakes, then the muffled sounds of yelling drift through. Carey just stares at the ceiling, blinking as something smashes and the yelling escalates. There’s barely any sunlight coming through his blinds, not enough to indicate that the sun had been up for any long length of time.

“Hey,” he tries to yell, voice hoarse from sleep, “Shut up.”

The yelling doesn’t stop. The banging doesn’t stop. The LED clock flashes a bleak 5:54 at him. Someone yells from a different apartment, and then the increasing volume of early morning foreign news seeps through the walls.

Carey groans and shoves a pillow over his face. He’s retired and he can’t even get a decent sleep in. He removes the pillow. 

“Everyone shut the hell up!” he yells again, but no one pays attention. 

This time he pulls his duvet over his head as well for good measure.

: :

“Invest in some fucking earplugs,” Brandon tells him cheerfully, “And quit complaining.”

Carey switches the phone to speaker and pulls open his cupboard, where his 10 different coffee mugs and lone bowl stare at him, “It’s every morning. The walls are paper.” 

“Move apartments then.”

“Yes,” Carey says, pulling the least-chipped looking mug from the cupboard and inspecting it for any cracks, “That’s a brilliant idea. I’ll just get one with the stacks of money I have from my lengthy and well-paid career of professional…”

He trails off, well-aware of the paper thin walls he was complaining about.

“Professional investigator,” he settles on, and wrinkles his nose in distaste. 

Brandon laughs at him through the phone, “Leave has made you bitter.”

“It’s not a leave,” Carey says, and sighs, “It’s retirement.” There’s a crackle of judgemental silence from the phone. Carey pinches the bridge of his nose, “It is. I’m not kidding, Prust.”

“Sure,” Brandon says, sounding dubious, “No offense, but you’re not the retiring type, Pricer. You just had a bad mission. We--”

“Don’t say ‘we all have them’,” Carey cuts him off, “Don’t.”

“We do.”

Carey puts down the mug so he doesn’t try and smash it against the dirty counter top, “Not like that.”

“No,” admits Brandon, after a pause, “But that’s why they gave you leave. So you could. Recover. Not so you could give up entirely.”

Carey clenches his jaw angrily, grinds his teeth, “No offense, Prust, but you don’t really know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“Carey--” Brandon starts, sounding apologetic, but Carey hangs up on him.

He stares at the screen of his phone, anger compressing his chest and hands clenching on the edge of the counter. Not so you could give up entirely.

“I’m not giving up,” Carey says to his empty, shitty apartment, “I’m not giving up. I’m not…”

He can see the flames lick at the side of buildings, blood on his hands, the crush of walls collapsing in and the stench of copper and gasoline. His throat feels tight. 

“November,” he says. His voice is cracked. He hates it, “Montreal, Canada. Apartment 20. November. Montreal. Canada. Apartment 20. November...”

His heart slows down, stops racing, and his lungs feel a bit looser. The granite feels cooler under his hands. 

He flings his arm out, and the mug flies against the wall and shatters. Carey stares at it for a long moment, at the white pieces scattered on the floor. He exhales slowly. 

If he cuts up his hands a bit cleaning up the shards, he doesn’t care. He’s retired, what does he need his hands for?

When the remains of the mug are safely cutting up his bin liner, he opens the cupboard again to stare at the half empty bottle of Jack’s.

He grabs it, and pointedly doesn’t think about whether this is a testament to Prust’s point or not, or whether early morning drinking is an upside or downside to retirement. 

: :

_“Pricey. Pricey. C’mon man, wake up. Please.”_

_There’s an alarm blaring in the distance, the roar of fire, and the deafening cracks of a disintegrating building. Carey’s head hurts. There’s something sticky on the side of his face._

_“Pricey!”_

_He groans, tries to turn his head. He can’t move. There’s the sound of a keyboard clicking, fast-paced, desperate._

_“Please, Pricey. Carey. You gotta wake up.”_

_There’s a electronic beep, the sound of crackly speakers. An monotonous robotic voice declaring self-destruct in 10, 9, 8, 7--_

_“Carey, wake the fuck up or we’re going to die!”_

_It sounds like PK. PK? What was PK doing--_

_4, 3--_

_The building. The explosion. The fire._

_2--_

_The building was collapsing. The mission-- It had._

_“Carey, please--”_

_1--_

_Carey opens his eyes._

: :

He’s yelling, pointlessly, throat raw as he rips at his sheets, tumbles off the side of the bed. He lands heavily on his arms, crawls backwards, and scrabbles under his bedside table for the gun that’s strapped there.

By the time in it’s his hand and cocked, he realizes that he’s staring at his dark, empty apartment. His body feels like it’s trembling, but his hands are steady. His gun is pointed at nothing. The walls were intact. There was no fire. PK wasn’t… PK wasn’t…

“November,” Carey says, voice hoarse, “Montreal. Canada. Apartment 20. 2015. Montreal, Canada, Apartment 20. It’s November. You’re in Montreal. You’re in your apartment.”

He clenches his jaw, lowers his gun. His shirt is soaked through with sweat. He raises his hand and carefully touches the side of his head. It’s dry. Healed. Just hair and unbroken skin. 

His heart won’t stop beating out of his chest, adrenaline still pumping through his veins. He should take a shower. Change the sweat-soaked sheets. Do anything except just sit on the floor, slight headache from the alcohol, gun still in hand, and stare at nothing. 

Carey ends up throwing a towel over his bed and climbing back in, staring at the blue morning light coming through the window. His gun is under his pillow now, a comforting hard-edged presence. 

He can’t get back to sleep. He tosses and turns, tries counting backwards from 100, but nothing works as his brain runs overtime and the blue turns to white light. The banging starts above him, the arguing, the television sounds. 

He goes for a run instead, pushing his legs until they burn and his lungs ache but he doesn’t stop running. He keeps running and running, going faster until he’s running too fast for the average jogger in the morning, running until he finally stops and braces his arms against a tree trunk, wheezing for air. 

It had taken all of his considerable rationality to not take his gun with him on this run. It takes all of that same rationality to not just leg it home. The back of his neck prickles with every step he takes back. 

He had a bad night, he reasons as he unlocks his front door. A really bad night. A bad day, really. Fucking Brandon. 

Carey kicks off his sneakers and hunts down his almost-empty bottle of whiskey. He could call this a second bad day. God, his mandated therapist back at the CSIS would be so mad at him. 

Brandon calls him that night. Carey, frowning at his phone through his drunken stupor, answers with a slurred, “Hello?”

“Pricer,” Brandon says, “I just wanted to apologize for yesterday. I was out of line.”

“Yep,” Carey says, and studies the now empty whiskey bottle in his hand, “Thanks.”

His voice sounds slow, and blurry. Carey usually has a better alcohol tolerance than this. 

“Oh, good,” Brandon sounds relieved, “I was-- wait, are you drunk?”

Carey nods, before remembering that Brandon can’t see him, “Yep.”

There’s silence, a shuffling noise, and Brandon says, “You okay, man?”

“Oh,” Carey says, “Yeah, sure.”

“Um,” Brandon says, “You don’t sound okay, is the thing.”

“Why’d’you ask then?” Carey spits into the phone, “This is your fault. Asshole.”

Brandon sighs, “Jeez, Carey, I’m--”

“You’re sorry,” Carey interrupts, “I know. It’s just…”

He trails off, looking down at himself. He notices, numbly, that he’s lost his pants at some point during the day-drinking. He didn’t eat, either, barely eats these days. It’s showing, his stomach a concave lying down, his ribs more noticeable. He’s still got muscle, still got considerable strength on his frame. For how much longer, though, he doesn’t know. 

Carey unclutches the whiskey bottle, letting it fall to the floor with a thump.

“I’m a,” he says into the phone, then changes, “I _was_. A fucking spy, Prusty. Shit, like this, like my head. Doesn’t happen. It never happened. Worse things happened and this _didn’t_ happen.”

He’s angry. He’s so angry at everything.

Brandon’s voice is calm when he responds, “You’re also human, Pricer. Shit like this happens to humans.”

Carey laughs, but it feels humorless. A human, yeah.

_Sometimes, man, you’re a robot._

Carey sighs. He needs to buy more alcohol. 

: :

The next morning starts like every other morning. Banging, arguing, television noise, repeat. Carey groans into his pillow, fingers the edge of his gun, and debates quietly to himself. 

Sense and rationality kicks in and he withdraws his hand and finds the willpower to roll over and stare at his ceiling. 

He has nothing planned for the day. He has nothing to do regardless. Nothing to do, apparently, other than get drunk and be pathetic on the phone. He guesses he should be grateful he hasn’t accidentally drunk-dialled someone more embarrassing than Brandon. 

Not that Brandon can do much about it after being transferred to Vancouver in June. All he can do is laugh at Carey over the phone. 

He lies in a self-pitying stupor, listening to the sounds from the other apartments, before deciding that no, he _would_ take a shower this morning. Maybe he’d eat something. 

One look at his fridge contents post-shower tell him that plan is out of the question. Fine. He’ll go get groceries. 

: :

 

Carey’s been to many places that people would consider a metaphorical hell on Earth. It’s part of his job-- what was once his job. Desert places, frozen places, war-torn places, places in Texas. 

None of them compare to his local supermarket. 

For some reason, this supermarket decided to expand out to encompass a wider demographic of customers, or some bullshit like that. Hence, a coffee shop, and a playpen. Self-service machines. Rows upon rows over useless consumer foods that Carey wouldn’t have the faintest clue of deciphering. 

There’s a kid screaming at the top of his lungs an aisle down, while Carey just stares at the colorful lines of cereal boxes. His headache has come back, full force, but this supermarket only stocks low-grade painkillers. Which he has four boxes of in his basket. He knows the damn things won't work anyway. 

The mother is shushing her kid now, but the brat keeps on screaming. Carey pulls his cap lower over his face to block out the saturated fluorescent lighting and grabs the nearest box of cereal he can find. Some oat mix? He doesn’t care. 

Twenty minutes later, and about five different trips down various wrong aisles (who puts the bread near the frozen fish?) and Carey’s watching and wincing as the bubble-gum snapping cashier can’t scan his fucking milk. It beeps, declines, beeps louder, declines, and the girl shakes it like a can of whipped cream to try and get it to scan. Carey shrugs further back into his hoodie. Every sound feels like a gunshot. Everything is too fucking loud. The milk finally scans through, and the girl pops her gum.

Someone is laughing at him. It sounds like PK. Carey can feel his pulse in his ears. 

It takes him five minutes sitting in his car before his hands stop shaking, reciting the date, where he is. He’s such a goddamn mess. 

He stops at the liquor store on the way back to his apartment.

: :

He goes running the next day, shoves his phone in the potplant outside his door, and just runs. His lungs scream, his legs burn, and the days of hard drinking and barely eating are catching up to him, taking their toll. 

He’s not as fast as he was before he retired, but he’s still pretty quick. 

He runs so hard that he ends up vomiting into some bushes in the park. He blames it on the hangover. So he runs back to the apartment.

When Carey stumbles to his floor, legs feeling like jelly, he reaches for his spare key under the brown, dying, pot-plant and then fishes out of his phone. 

Something feels off. He freezes, lessens his exerted breathing, and waits. 

The hallway is quiet. Carey can hear the muffled sounds of his neighbours, so nothing has changed there. But something. Something has. 

He looks down at his phone and finds five missed calls from Brandon, and one text: _man call me back right away_

Frowning, he reaches for his door to unlock it, and finds the knob loose. He twists it, and the door creaks open. He knows that he locked it before leaving, and he knows what a jimmied lock feels like.

Carey’s heart kicks into overdrive. It’s not panic, though, but adrenaline. The hairs on the back of his neck stand up, and he stands in the doorway, taking in the surroundings. Nothing else seems out of place. 

There’s cologne in the air. A men’s cologne, one that Carey knows he doesn’t use. It smells familiar. It sets his teeth on edge.

The door pushes open with a slight creak, but Carey knows how to tread lightly. He glances around the entryway of his apartment, trying to spot signs of a disturbance. Trying to spot signs of another human being. He drags his hand across the wall, pushes aside a non-descript art rendering of Vancouver, and pulls out the gun hidden in the make-shift crevice.

It’s loaded, and he readies it with a click. The gun is steady in his hands. Guns are always steady in his hands. It’s an attribute he was known for. Carey Price is unwavering. 

It’s almost ironic, Carey thinks as he edges around the corner and ducks his head into his kitchen. Empty. 

There’s a soft clatter in the living room, and Carey rounds the corner, and points the gun.

“Don’t fucking move or I’ll blow your head off,” he says. His voice is steady. 

His intruder puts his hands on the back of his head, a sign of surrender, and steps out from around Carey’s couch. He’s wearing a suit, but the jacket is missing, and Carey can see the holster and gun strapped around his back. 

“I said, don’t move,” Carey repeats, and steps closer, “What the hell are you doing here? Who sent you?”

The guy dips his head, hair falling forward, and Carey glimpses the tattoo on the back of his head. He frowns, looks at it more closely, and the image combined with the cheap cologne smell he noticed in the hallway make everything click.

Irritation floods his chest, and Carey exhales slowly, putting the gun down. “For fuck’s sake.”

“It is good to see you too, Agent Price,” Galchenyuk says, and there’s mirth in his voice, “Can I put my hands down?”

Carey contemplates shooting him still. 

Chucky takes the silence as an affirmative and lowers his hands, turning around to actually face Carey this time. His face isn’t as baby-ish as the last time Carey saw him, but the scraggly beard around his jaw is probably the main contributing factor to that. His shoulders have broadened out, and he’s stacked on muscle. Max probably has him picking up what should’ve been Carey’s missions. 

“Not Agent anymore,” Carey says offhandedly, and narrows his eyes, “What are you doing here, Alex?”

Chucky shrugs, “Max sent me.”

Chucky was never one to beat around the bush. He got straight to the point. It’s a quality Carey admires in people.

“Of course he did,” Carey says, and pinches the bridge of his nose, “Do you want a drink? Before I have to hear this?”

Chucky nods, and Carey goes to get some glasses. Chucky follows him to the kitchen, still wearing the same serious look on his face. 

Because Carey is a dick, he pulls out the vodka.

“You are a dick,” Chucky tells him, but he accepts the drink anyway. 

Carey had never had much of a taste for the stuff, but he tosses it down anyway. Alcohol would be needed to get through whatever Max sent Chucky to his house to say. He doesn’t even wince.

Chucky just watches him thoughtfully, holding the drink to his lips, before putting it back down on the counter without even sipping it, “Drinking a lot, Price?”

“None of your business,” Carey says. “Why did Max send you?”

Chucky pulls a file out of the jacket he’d slung over the bar stool next to him, and flips it open, “I’ve got a case for you.”

Carey stares at him. Chucky blinks, “What?”

Carey reaches over and flips the folder shut again, “I’m retired.”

“No, you are not,” Chucky replies. “You’re the best.”

“I _was_ the best,” Carey says. “But now I’m retired. You can leave now.”

“We think it’s related to the mission you ran last year.”

Carey exhales, and runs a hand over his face, “The Bruin organization?”

Chucky nods, “Yeah. Well, I mean, we don’t know. It has their trademarks all over it, but no sign of any members.”

“They’re easy to emulate,” Carey says, and resigns himself, “Fine. Show me the case. Just be quick about it.”

Chucky rolls his eyes, and opens the file again. “We’ve recorded movement in Toronto, similar to what we experienced last year, except in a different area.”

“They’ve never hit Toronto before.”

“No,” Chucky says, “We’ve seen weapons being shifted, people going missing. The tech branch has been monitoring it. One of our own agents was compromised last week, came back in a body bag before we could pull him. Gally was on the mission with him and couldn’t help him in time.”

Carey pauses and pulls the file across the counter after a beat. He doesn’t know the agent in the picture, but he’s young, fresh. A rookie, almost. 

“It was his first undercover mission,” Chucky says quietly.

“And his last.” Carey fills in, and sighs, “What did he have?”

Chucky taps a blueprint, “This. It’s a drive, of the data he was collecting at the time. It’s got the profiles of agents across North America, not just with us, including past and current missions.” Carey stares at him. Chucky looks affronted, “What?”

“That,” Carey says, pointing to the blueprint, “Is the stupidest thing I have ever heard of. Who puts sensitive information like that onto one drive?” 

PK would’ve thrown a fit about it, Carey thinks. He swallows back the feeling that rushes in his chest. 

Chucky looks serious, “We know. It wasn’t meant to have that kind of information on it, not of that extent.”

“Was the rookie a mole, then?” Carey asks.

Chucky shakes his head, “We do not think so. But someone in the organization is, and if they have it, or have given it to the Bruins or something... it is password protected, but we don’t know for how long before whoever now has it gets in.”

Carey stares at the file, hand spread on the edge of the manilla folder. 

“Why does Max want me?” Carey asks, and his voice is quieter than he wants it to be. He clears his throat, straightens his shoulders. “I mean, there’s plenty of agents who’ve had similar experiences with the Bruins- if you do think it’s them- and um, all of them. Aren’t. Retired.”

There’s silence, and Chucky sighs before taking a sip of his drink. He wrinkles his nose, “This is shit, Price.”

“Fuck you,” Carey says, “I didn’t ask you to come round, let alone critique my alcohol.” 

Chucky pushes the rest of the glass aside and adjusts the papers of the file, “Max thinks you’re the best man for the job. I agree.”

He leaves the file on the bench and shrugs his jacket back on. It’s weird, Carey thinks, looking at him. There’s so much more weight on Galchenyuk’s shoulder, so much more from the fresh-faced rookie that sat in the desk across from Carey’s and threw paper planes at Gallagher. 

Carey’s not the type to get nostalgic, so he lets Chucky leave.

“You know,” Chucky says at the door, adjusting the cuffs of his jacket, “It was Max who sent me here, but it was not Max who recommended you, at first.”

Carey stares at the wall, “Who did, then?”

“PK,” Chucky replies, and because he is a bastard, leaves Carey’s front door open on the way out. 

: :

Carey had been recruited by the CSIS when he was 16, straight from a foster home. He was a bright student in school, steady grades across the board, and a tendency to be isolated from his peers. No family, no friends, young and smart. He was prime CSIS picking material. 

Security training, or spy school as Brandon would call it, was notoriously tough, but Carey had excelled at that as well. He’d risen in the ranks, graduated at the top of his class, and become the CSIS’s most promising agent with two years. The youngest and best. 

He was good at it all. Espionage was his forte. His talent. They never even tried him at a desk- he was a field agent through and through. His superiors often commented that it was a shame he wasn’t an agent during the Cold War. 

He was good at his job. Fuck that, he was the _best_ at his job. He’d been in the business for almost a decade, he had over 100 missions under his belt. Missions that were good, brilliant even, and missions that collapsed on themselves. Shit happens. He was the best at his job, he was even better at compartmentalizing. 

Espionage couldn’t be personal. He’d been taught that rule from day one. You’re a machine. An highly intelligent weapon. Nothing was personal in the spy business.

It was his own fault. He took responsibility for it. He fucked up the number one rule. Don’t let it get personal. 

So now, here he was. A day-drinking, panicked, mess of a former spy that stares at the open manilla folder that Chucky left like it holds some answer he’s searching for. He doesn’t even know the question.

PK recommended him. PK saw this potential mission, the potential threat, and said, hey, do you know who would be good for this job? Carey. Yeah, you know Carey? The guy that totally and utterly fucked up the last mission and put me in a medically induced coma for two weeks? And didn’t even visit me? Not even once? Because he was too chicken-shit to see the actual damage his own ego and pride had wreaked? Yeah, him. He’s good. 

His chest hurts. Carey takes a shaky breath, and the pressure lessens somewhat. Right, breathing. That’s important. 

He flips the folder close and reaches for Chucky’s unfinished drink.

: :

He’s watching late-night news when the anchor makes a statement about the series of missing people in the Toronto area, and Carey knows it’s the same case. He glares at the talking head’s blonde head, the low buzz of blue light, and switches the tv off with a fumble of the remote.

: :

“Carey.”

Carey opens his eyes. PK is lounging on the other side of his bed, tapping something out on an iPad- looking device, and grins widely at him.

“Dude, you’re awake,” he says, and glances back down at the iPad, “You were asleep for ages.”

Carey groans, and stretches out his arms. He doesn’t feel hungover, “Sorry?”

“Don’t be, man,” PK says, “I expect my boyfriend to get optimal beauty sleep whenever possible. Even if he is a big bad spy.”

“Hey,” Carey says, “I’m not bad.”

PK leans over and smacks a kiss on his mouth. “No, you’re not. Not all the time, at least.”

He goes back to his tapping. Carey just stares at him. 

“PK, what are you doing here?”

PK frowns at him, “What? Don’t you want me to be?”

Something like panic shoots in Carey’s chest, and he grabs PK’s wrist in his hand, “What? No, god, no. I want you here. I always want you here.”

He blinks. He never says things like that. 

But hey, he hasn’t seen PK in…. 

Wait. 

“Last time I saw you,” he says, “Was after…”

PK looks fine. Carey supposes it’s been ages, but still. What’s PK doing here?

“Why’d you turn down the case, Pricey?” PK asks, casually. 

Carey looks at him sharply, “What?”

PK shrugs, “I told Max you’d pull through for us, that you’d help us out. Help _me_ out.”

There’s silence. Carey feels stricken, “PK, I--”

“I expected more from you,” PK says, flipping over the cover of the iPad and leaning over Carey, “I guess I shouldn’t have.”

“But I…” Carey blurts out. It burns his tongue, so he clamps his mouth shut.

PK looks at him sadly, “Where are you, Carey? Why aren’t you here?”

“I don’t--” Carey begins to say, but PK’s gone. 

The smell of burning wood begins to fill his senses, and Carey sits up in panic. The walls are catching on fire.

“PK!” he yells.

There’s no answer.

The room burns down.

: :

Carey wakes up with a wretched gasp, almost falling off the couch. The TV is blank, like he left it, and the walls are still standing. There’s no sign of PK.

Of course not, because it was a dream. Carey flops back on the couch with a sigh, his heart racing in his chest. He can’t keep doing this.

He walks into the kitchen, flicking on all the lights in his path, and heading for the sink for a glass of water.

He’s sipping at it when he notices Chucky’s file looking at him accusingly on the bench where Carey had left it. 

Fine. He’ll bite.

He opens the folder, glancing at the different notes and photos that fall out. Chucky’s messy handwriting is present on most of it, as well as neater, slanted, handwriting on the notes about the drive. 

Carey touches over the inked writing. PK’s notes are scribbled in the margins, instructions and information about this notorious hard drive of top secret info. 

_Why aren’t you here?_

He picks up his phone, and dials.

“Galchenyuk.”

“Chucky,” Carey says, “It’s Price.” 

There’s silence at the end, then--, “You’re going to take the case, aren’t you?”

Carey nods, then remembers he’s talking on the phone, “Look Alex. I’m not...”

Chucky just waits. Carey grits his teeth.

“I’m not one hundred percent there. Just yet. I’ll consult on this case, but that’s it. I’m retired.”

“Sure, Pricer,” Chucky says, “See you tomorrow.”

He hangs up. Carey stares at his phone and wonders when Chucky became such a smartass. 

: :

He’d handed in his ID badge the day he left this place, running like a bat out of hell. He mills around the entrance, the receptionist he doesn’t recognize glancing sharply at him every few seconds. It’s increasingly uncomfortable.

Chucky finally jogs through the door, flashes his badge to the receptionist, “He’s with me.”

“Certainly, Agent Galchenyuk,” the receptionist says robotically, and hands Carey a visitor badge. 

Chucky’s trying not the laugh at him in the elevator as Carey pins it to the top of his jacket, “Visitor Carey Price. Does not sound right.”

Carey glares at him as the elevator goes down. It’s silent, which Carey supposes is a welcome change- Max finally got rid of the chirpy elevator music. 

It was a harsh whiplash travelling down an elevator to upbeat jazz when you’re covered in your blood, your best friend’s blood, your… just so much blood. 

Carey digs his blunt nails into his palm, and exhales slowly. Chucky gives him a wary look, “Are you okay, Price?”

“Fine,” Carey says, and the elevator comes to a smooth stop. 

The place is still like Carey remembers, still lines of desks and high-tech computers, still metal and white, still the same old spy headquarters that Carey used to belong to. He hates it. 

He keeps his head down.

: :

“You think it’s the Bruins,” Carey says, leaning back in Max’s comfiest office chair.

Max looks at him, “It has their M.O all over it.”

Carey scoffs, “Well, then you’re wrong. If it was them, they wouldn’t be so flashy about it. Take it from me.”

Max sighs and sits across the desk from Carey, “Then, who? We’re desperate.”

He looks tired. Max had only been the head of the CSIS for a year when Carey retired, and he was a good pick for the job. Carey thinks that Max is a good man, a good leader, but the toll of it is showing on his face. Still, Carey hadn't wanted anyone else at his back.

“A copycat,” Carey says. “An ex-agent maybe. Someone with a grudge. You said there was a mole, right?”

Max has a dark look on his face, “We believe so.”

“Then they've got someone on the inside,” Carey says, “Whoever it is.”

Max is quiet, and then, “Are you 100% sure it's not any of the Bruins, Carey?”

“No,” Carey says, “But I do know that this isn't solely them. It can't be.” 

“Well,” Max says, “It's up to us to figure it out, and retrieve that data before it falls into the wrong hands. Assuming it hasn't already. If that's the case, we take down whoever has it. Stop the spread of information.”

It's a good plan. Carey nods, and stands up. Max smiles at him.

“You can report to Tech whenever you're ready, Pricey. They'll probably put you through a compulsory physical and mental evaluation, and then PK can set you up.”

Carey stares at him, “What?” 

Max looks startled, “Um, do you need me to repeat that?”

“No,” says Carey, and just stares, “Max, I’m retired. I came here to consult on the case. That's it.” 

Max frowns. “Alex said you were fully prepared to take the case, to rejoin the ranks.”

Carey is going to _kill_ Galchenyuk. 

Max just keeps frowning, “We could really use your expertise in the field on this one, Carey. You have the knowledge, the contacts.” 

Carey is silent.

“Look, if you do this one favour for us, then we’ll let you go. No more house calls, no more cases, no contact. You're free to do whatever you please, to retire in peace.”

It's blackmail disguised as a tempting offer. Carey just glares at Max.

“I'll find out how deep the Bruins are in on this,” Carey says, “And that's it.”

“Sure,” Max says, “You’ll need these.”

He hands Carey his old I.D. badge.

“You can report to Tech whenever,” Max says repeats. Carey just stalks out of his office.

: :

The Tech department hasn’t changed. It’s still cluttered in a way that manages to look organized, still beeping and flashing computers and screens, still parts of weapons and cars and god knows what else lying around on metal tables. Carey knows that if you take the maintenance elevator to the left, there’s a dim-lit garage of cars- equipped with the best espionage equipment government funds can buy. 

Or the best espionage equipment PK Subban can make, which is the best of the best.

The man in question is hunched over a table, a soldering iron in one hand and what looks like a taser gun in the other. Carey doesn’t want to ask.

“PK,” Chucky announces as they walk in, “Are you busy?”

“Always,” PK says, and wow.

Carey hasn’t heard his voice in months. The last time he heard it, not in a dream, in reality, in the flesh, right in his fucking ear--

_Carey, please…_

“I have something for you,” Chucky says, snapping Carey out of it, “The drive case.”

PK moves the soldering iron, and something hisses with a spurt of steam. Carey doesn’t want to even know why he’s got the taser gun trained steadily on the equipment he’s working on. He grins, and puts the iron down, and flicks off his safety goggles.

“Awesome, finally!” he exclaims, “What do you…”

He trails off, upon noticing Carey’s presence, his eyes wide and his mouth forming an O-shape.

Chucky looks between them warily, and clears his throat, “PK.”

“You didn’t tell him I was coming?” Carey asks, not unreasonably. PK still looks a bit shell-shocked at seeing him.

Chucky shrugs, “I did not think it’d be that important. PK!”

PK shakes his head like he’s trying to clear snow off his head, and looks at Chucky. “Yeah?”

“Pricey is helping us out on this case. He needs weapons. Gadgets. Your things.”

He makes a hand-wavey motion as he says it. PK looks at him.

“Things? _Things_? Alex, Chucky, my man, my beautiful inventions are not _things_. They are creations!”

Chucky rolls his eyes, “Sure. Can you get Carey a gun?”

PK glances at Carey, “What happened to your old gun?”

His voice is notably colder. Carey swallows the lump in his throat; he understands, “I, uh. I had to hand it back in, when I. You know.”

“Retired.” Chucky says at the same time PK responds with, “Ran away.”

It’s quiet. PK picks up the soldering iron.

“Come on, PK,” Chucky says, “We want to solve this case as soon as possible.”

The soldering iron is still in PK hands, and Carey recognizes the look of him deliberating all his possible options.

All possible options that limit his contact with Carey to as minimal as possible. 

“Fine,” PK finally says, and switches off the iron, “What were you looking for?”

“Anything,” Chucky says.

“SIG Sauer,” Carey responds, “9mm, preferably.”

PK grins at him, but Chucky rolls his eyes.

“Always have some of them,” PK says, and they follow him to a different section of Tech, “They’re your gun of choice. Of course, a few modifications, but only the best for Pricey.”

Carey can still detect the undercurrent of coldness in PK’s voice. He’s so bright, so warm, and happy all the time. It’s noticeable. 

The guns are perfect. Black, slick, tailored somehow to perfectly fit in Carey’s hand. The weight is comforting. 

“Try it out,” PK says, large purple ear muffs on the sides of his head. Somehow, to Carey’s amusement, Chucky has ended up with a pair as well. The grumpy look on his face says it all. 

Carey turns, and shoots at the range. The bullet misses to the side of the heart outline, in the upper shoulder area. 

He stares at it, and doesn’t say a word.

He used to be the best shot in the whole organization. In most of the organizations (only exception being this one spy, somewhere South, who’s a perfect shot with any weapon given to him- sniper rifle or fucking one bullet handguns, and somewhat of a living legend). It doesn’t matter- he used to be the top game.

Now? He’s missing easy shots.

He shoots again.

It hits the target’s stomach.

Frustrated, Carey empties the clip into the swinging cardboard. It almost all follows the second shot, lower half of the target’s torso, the force of it almost blowing the silhouetted legs off. It dangles precariously.

“Well,” PK says cheerfully, “He’s well and truly disemboweled now. You should click the button on the bottom of the gun.”

Carey reloads the gun, switches hands, clicks the button under his thumb. The gun makes a slight clinking noise, the weight shifts momentarily, and then Carey fires.

The target explodes. 

Chucky cheers, and Carey stares in amazement at the floating embers, “Cool trick.”

“Adjustment that makes the bullets like mini-rocket launchers,” PK says, “Had some spare time… you know. One of the things to come up with.”

The guilt is floating back in Carey’s chest, and he covers it up by packing up the gun kit. “I’ll take this one.”

“It’s already got your name on it,” PK says, and claps his shoulder.

His hand is warm. Carey can smell him over the gunpowder. He freezes, and PK immediately withdraws his hand.

Chucky just looks wary, “Pricey, we better get started.”

“I’ve gotta sit in on this,” PK exclaims, “That drive probably has 90% of my life’s work on it. Emotionally involved, my man.” 

“Sure,” Chucky says, “But we have to get on this. Now.”

“I’ll be right behind you,” Carey says, and the two nod and head back to the main Tech area.

Carey slams the gun case shut, rips off his ear muffs, and tries to breathe.

PK’s handprint feels like it’s scorching through his clothes and into his skin.

: :

Gallagher puts the earpiece in Carey’s ear, transparent and small enough to be mainly undetectable. Chucky and PK watch with scrutiny.

“You need to test the volume for me,” Brendan says, and steps back with a remote, leaning into it, “Can you hear me when I speak?”

The earpiece screeches in Carey’s ear, and he resists the urge to fling it out and crush it, “That’s terrible, Gallagher. What the fuck.”

“Sorry, sorry!” he says quickly, and fiddles with the knob, “How about now?”

His voice, although easily audible without the earpiece, drifts into Carey’s ear like a ghostly whisper. Carey nods.

“Sounds good.”

“Cool,” Gally says. He looks relieved, “This way PK will be able to keep in touch with you throughout the mission.”

Carey swallows, “You’re not on me?”

He doesn’t look at PK.

Gally frowns, “No? I’m assisting Chucky.”

“Right,” Carey says. Is it rude to ask for a swap? How do you word: may have a severe panic attack when handler speaks into earpiece?

“Okay,” he finally says, resisting the urge to touch the earpiece.

“You got a plan?” PK pipes up. His voice sounds distant.

They hail down Max to discuss the next course of action, and Carey stumbles through it at the thought of PK being in his ear, all the time. Talking to him. Pretending like nothing has ever happened.

It’ll kill him before any mission, before any bottle of liquor does.

 _The spy business can’t be personal_ , he reminds himself. 

_It can’t._

Carey is packing up his equipment, going through the plan in his head, when PK corners him in the Tech lab.

“Carey,” he says, voice low. Carey stiffens. 

_Carey. Please._

“Yes?” he answers. His voice sounds shaky to his own ears.

PK moves to stand next to him, trying to catch his eyes, “How’ve you been?”

Carey clears his throat, adjusting the straps of his holster around his chest, “Great. I’ve been… great.”

He thinks he sees disappointment in PK’s eyes. Hurt, even.

“How about you?” Carey stutters.

PK nods, “Yeah, you know, I had some recovery time, but I came back as soon as I can. You know me, man, I love my job! But the place isn’t the same without you. I-” He pauses, and grabs Carey’s arm. Carey tries his hardest not to flinch away, “Carey, come on. Why did you leave? You never. You never talked to me, man. They just told me you’d thrown it in, and I thought, ‘Not Carey.’ You loved it here! But you didn’t come back and you didn’t answer my calls and you never…”

It’s definitely hurt. Carey extracts his arm from PK’s grip.

“I needed a change, PK,” he says, “I needed to move on.”

PK just looks despondent, and Carey turns away from him.

“I don’t get it,” PK says, “I don’t.”

“There’s nothing to get!” Carey snaps, frustration bubbling in him, “Just leave it alone!”

PK is silent, and Carey finally gets the holster in place, “Are you going to be good on this mission, Subban?”

PK jerks back minutely, before he recovers. His eyes are cold when he answers, “Of course. You need a wire under your collar, so we can monitor your targets, and we need to make sure your tracking device is still functional.”

“It is,” Carey says, “I moved apartments and Max sent Chucky to my new one.”

“Oh,” PK says, then, “That explains why you weren’t at your old one.”

“Obviously.”

PK tries to smile, Carey can see it, but it falls flat, “I’ll fix them to you now.”

“Ok,” Carey says, and PK leaves to get the equipment.

It takes him a few deep breaths to get his racing heart under control, to unclench his fists.

This is going to be a long mission.

: : : :

**part ii: the game**

: : : :

Patrice Bergeron is the first person he finds.

They’d decided, back at headquarters, that they need to tackle this person by person, organization by organization. Send out feelers, see who knows what, find any links or traces of:

the drive.  
the mole

Patrice is Carey’s first choice. He’s a member of the Bruins, has been for as long as Carey has been in the business, probably longer. Every damn mission involving them, Patrice is there. 

However, in the weirdest way possible, Carey actively likes the guy. He has the vibe that he helps little old ladies across the street and donates to charity and adopts rescue puppies and buys girl scout cookies. 

He’s also sitting at a rather hidden-in-plain-sight cafe along a busy food and drink street when Carey finds him. 

Carey slides into the opposite chair, and Patrice looks up from his newspaper and groans.

“Price,” he says, “I thought you retired.”

“Word gets around,” Carey says, and picks up a menu, “What’s good?”

“The coffee,” Patrice answers, “It’s exceptional.”

Carey hums and just looks through the menu, occasionally glancing at Patrice through his sunglasses. 

Carey finally hails down a waitress and orders a coffee, and the table is still silent as he waits for her to come back with it. Patrice is pretending to be engrossed in the newspaper, Carey can tell. The line of his shoulders are tense.

He takes a sip of the coffee when it arrives, “You’re not wrong, Bergeron. It’s good.”

Patrice sighs, “This isn’t a social visit, is it?”

“Nope,” Carey says, and takes another drink, “I’ve heard some concerning rumours.”

“Shouldn’t listen to the gossip mill, Price. You hear nasty stuff.”

“Always a grain of truth, you know.”

Patrice makes a considering noise, “Then there is some truth to the rumours that you’re gone. Finished.”

Carey doesn’t flinch, “Depends on the source.”

“Same for whatever you’ve heard about me.”

Carey shrugs, “I haven’t. Just about your organization, as such.”

Patrice smiles, “Which is?”

Carey pulls out the blueprint of the drive, and slides it across the table, “Heard about this?”

Patrice takes the blueprint gently and studies it, “Yes. I have. Why?”

“It’s gone missing. Stolen from an agent’s dead hands.”

Patrice makes a considering noise.

Carey raises his eyebrows, “Do the Bruins have it?”

“No,” Patrice says, frowning, “We don’t.”

Carey just stares at him. Patrice looks bored, almost. 

“Look, Bergeron. You’re my least hated Bruin, so--”

“That means nothing,” Patrice says, smirking, “That’s like saying the common cold is your least favourite virus. You hate it regardless, but it’s better than typhoid fever.”

“I’m curious. Which member of the Bruins is typhoid fever in this scenario?”

Patrice doesn’t answer, but he slides the blueprint back at Carey, “My organization has nothing to do with the disappearance of that drive. I promise you.”

Carey can’t tell if he’s lying or not, but track record says no. Carey feels like if the Bruins did have the drive, there’d be action taken sooner. More dead agents.

A Bruin is still a Bruin, regardless of their nice guy act. 

“Thanks,” Carey says, and finishes his drink, “You were right about the coffee here.”

He goes to stand, but something out of the corner of his eye makes him hesistate, “Which window?”

Patrice looks at him, eyes narrowed. Carey stares back.

“Across the street,” Patrice finally says, “Fourth floor. Third to the right.”

He raises his hand as he says it, a quick wave that didn’t seem out of place. The glint of light from the mentioned window disappears. The sniper’s rifle is gone.

“You knew I was coming,” Carey states, “How?”

Patrice shakes his newspaper, scanning it, “You need to deal with your own organization before coming after mine, Price. You’ve sprung a leak in the plumbing.”

“The mole,” Carey hisses, “Dammit.”

Patrice shrugs, “I’d suggest cleaning out your crew.”

Carey stands up, stretches, glances over at the window, “Were you ever gonna shoot me?”

Patrice does look up at him this time, and grins, “Course not. Who else would badger me this early in the morning? What would I do?”

Carey inclines his head at him and leaves a couple of tens on the table as he leaves. He keeps an eye out on the window the whole time. He turns on his earpiece.

“You hear that, PK?” he finally says, out of range of Patrice.

“Why the fuck was your earpiece off, Pricey?” PK explodes into the microphone, “Jesus!”

“I’m fine,” Carey says, “Did you catch what Bergeron said? About the sniper in the window?”

“Yup,” PK says, still sounding pissed, “Want me to see if I can hack into the security cameras on the building?”

“Please,” Carey says, crossing the street behind a moving van so Patrice doesn’t spot him.

He can hear the fast typing of keys, the sounds of beeps, and PK says, like a giant dork, “I’m in.”

Carey reaches the building, tries to the side fire door. The alarm doesn’t trigger, which is a pleasant bonus, but he’s faced with a few sets of stairs that spiral upwards into the building.

“Fourth floor,” PK prompts.

Carey rolls his eyes as he starts jogging up the stairs, “I heard him.”

“Just reminding you.”

“Do you have eyes on the sniper?”

There’s a pause, “I did.”

Carey stops running, “You _did_?”

The sound of PK’s furious typing reigns, then, “He’s gotta still be here.”

“Move the camera!” Carey says, resuming tackling the stairs, “Find him!”

“If he sees the camera following him he’s gonna split, Pricey!”

“Shit.” Carey mutters, and legs it up the stairs.

He bursts through the door, taking count of the door numbers, “PK, what number?”

“5,” he answers immediately.

Carey kicks the door down. 

Unnecessarily, seeing as it was already open a crack, so Carey just stumbles in and catches himself before he can fall flat on his ass.

The room is empty. A sniper’s kit is near the window, but the gun is gone. It sets Carey on edge, and he moves closer. His hands are clenched around his gun.

There’s nothing.

“The guy’s gone.”

PK doesn’t answer.

“PK! The guy is gone!”

He kicks the empty box for good measure. He looks down through the open window, the curtains fluttering, and across the street.

Patrice raises a takeaway coffee cup to him, and walks off. Carey swears, a heartfelt _fuck_.

“What’s wrong?” PK asks.

“They knew we were here,” Carey answers, “Knew I’d meet Patrice. That’s why the sniper was here. That’s why they could run.”

“Bergeron had no answers for the drive, either,” PK replies, “Did you’d think that would work?”

Carey resists turning the earpiece off. 

“The Bruins know about the drive,” Carey says back at headquarters, “They have to.”

There’s a sparking noise from PK’s desk, and he looks up, “Bergeron said they didn’t.”

“Bergeron lied!” Carey yells, “If the mole is that closely monitoring this mission of fucking course they’d know about it! They’re looking for it too!”

PK raises his hands, “Don’t yell at me, man.” 

Carey pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales sharply, “The Bruins are my only lead. I don’t know if they have it or not, but if they don’t have it they’re definitely looking for it.”

“Helpful,” PK supplies, “And not at all confusing.”

“Fuck you,” Carey says, and PK doesn’t even bother looking at him.

It’s quiet in the Tech lab, with PK working on some sort of weapon and Carey sitting awkwardly on a chair.

They used to spend hours talking in this Lab, between Carey’s missions. He loved being down here, away from the suffocating bustle of the regular offices above their heads.

Now, he hates it. Hates the reminder.

“I should never have come out of retirement,” he mutters to himself.

There’s a clatter from PK’s station. Carey doesn’t look at him.

Chucky walks in, looking harried, a few minutes later, “We have a problem.”

: : 

It’s a fucking bad problem.

Devante, an agent Carey had worked with a few times and was mainly confined to surveillance rather than field work, had spotted it on his radar.

“Names,” Gally announces, pointing to Devante’s computer screen, “Pictures. Alibis. Last known locations.”

“Of who?” Max asks. He looks tired.

“Agents,” Carey finishes for Gally, “It’s Agents.”

Max swears, “Any from our district?”

“Not yet, sir,” Devante says, “Mainly from New York and Pennsylvania at the moment.”

“Right,” Max says, “Get PK to see if he can track it. I’ll let Maripier know so she can send a message out to the organizations in those areas. Price, try and get on this. It’s a new lead.”

“Yes, sir,” Carey says, but he’s staring at the computer screen, at the names.

Someone has the drive. Someone is using the drive. 

There’s no message, not yet. Just information, followed by a ticking countdown on the webpage. 

2 days. 

2 days until the next leak.

Carey _knows_ the next leak is gonna hit them.

_Fuck_

: : 

“We could use your help on this, Prusty,” Carey says to the voicemail, “And Maripier probably wants to see you. I blame you for getting me into this mess. Come and help.”

He hangs up in time to hear PK snort in laughter, “What?”

PK shakes his head, “Nothing. How’s Brandon?”

“Fine,” Carey says, “How’s that trace coming along?”

The humoured look quickly disappears, “Not good. Whoever this is keeps bouncing the signal off different IPs around the world. Textbook, makes it incredibly hard to track. Even for me.”

Carey sighs, “Can you at least narrow it?”

PK nods, “It bounces back to North America more often than not, but it doesn’t narrow it down as much as you would like, I’d assume.” 

“Not really,” Carey says, “Shit.”

PK ignores him and keeps typing. Carey watches the code on the screen, the bouncing light off the design of a world map- what he assumes to be the aforementioned IP that PK can’t hold down. 

“Why New York and Pennsylvania agents?” he asks himself. PK glances at him.

“What?”

Carey clears his throat, “Why start there? And not even the higher up agents, the agents that if you took down you could actually cripple agencies.”

“Like Crosby?” PK asks. Carey nods.

“He wasn’t on the list.”

PK shrugs, “But maybe his information wasn’t even on the drive.”

“He’s the most famous shot in North America,” Carey presses, “His missions have been some of the most high-profile. Of course he’d be on that stupid fucking drive.”

PK laughs.

“What?” Carey asks.

“I knew you’d hate that drive,” PK chuckles, “I told them it was dumb. ‘Course they never listen to me. I’m just at Tech dude.”

Carey cracks a smile, “Bet you kicked up a storm.”

“Sure did,” PK says, and leans back, “I give up. The address won’t stop bouncing. No way I’d be able to hold it down.”

Carey swears. 

“What now?” asks PK.

Carey has absolutely no fucking idea.

“I have absolutely no fucking idea,” he says. PK just looks at him.

“This asshole is going to keep releasing names,” PK says slowly, “And aliases. And locations. Endangering _everyone_.”

“I know that!” yells Carey, “I just don’t know what to do!”

PK looks mad, “Figure something out, Carey.”

: : 

Three of the named agents are killed within 24 hours. 

Carey stares and stares at the stupid blueprint, at the released names, at the ever bouncing IP address. He doesn’t stare at PK on the other side of the lab, bouncing his head to something playing through giant headphones as he works.

He stares until something, _anything_ comes to him.

“We need to go to Pennsylvania,” he says.

PK doesn’t hear him.

“PK!” he yells, and PK looks up just as the smell of smoke hits his nose.

_“PK.”_

_He’s dragging a body through the crumbled building. His head hurt so bad, like knives stabbing through his skull._

_A wave of nausea hits him and he doubles over, retching. He never lets go of the limp hand in his grasp. He can’t. If he does, PK will die._

_PK will…_

_The building came down. The fucking building._

_PK was yelling for him and he couldn’t…. he couldn’t…_

_PK is going to_ die _if he doesn’t fucking_ move!

_It’s his fault. It’s his fault. It’s all his fault. He can’t. He can see a light._

_Smoke is in his lungs. He can’t breathe. Breathe._

_Breathe._  
  
_Breathe…_

“Pricey, man! Breathe with me, hey, hey, hey, look at me! Look at me!”

He’s staring straight into PK’s face, his wide worried eyes, his lungs screaming and his heart pounding. PK has his hand pressed to Carey’s chest, the other holding on to the back of his neck.

“Carey,” he says softly, “Carey, you need to calm down. You need to breathe.”

Carey wheezes. PK moves his hand to grab Carey’s, pressing it to his own chest, “Breathe with me, Carey. Follow me. Okay? In, and out. That’s it. Slowly. In, out.”

They sit like that, Carey trying to mimic PK’s deep, calm breaths. The same breaths he used to hear at night, PK asleep next to him. Deep, in, out. The smell of his skin. The feeling of him close.

Slowly, eventually, his breaths even out. His heart rate slows down. His sense of panic subsides. 

PK doesn’t let go of his hand or the back of his neck. His eyes are worried.

“You okay, Pricey?” he says.

“Yeah,” Carey says, voice rough, “Yeah, I’m. I’m fine.”

PK sits back, his hand still covering Carey’s, “Are you sure? Do you want me to get medical?”

“No,” Carey answers, “Honestly.”

They sit there in silence, Carey feeling the beat of PK’s heart under his hand. He knows he should move, go somewhere, but he doesn’t want to. Not just yet.

“You gonna tell me what the hell that was?” PK asks, his voice gentle. 

Carey shakes his head, “It’s nothing.”

PK withdraws, and stands up. Carey looks up at him dumbly.

“That wasn’t nothing, Pricey.”

Carey climbs to his feet, brushes off his clothes, “Leave it, PK.”

PK doesn’t look happy, but he lets it go, “What were you trying to tell me?”

Oh. Right.

“We need to go to Pennsylvania.”

: : 

Max isn’t overtly happy about the plan, as he said, _you’ve only been back for a few days, Price, and we haven’t even fully cleared you._

But, Max also doesn’t want another leak. He also really doesn’t want Carey out that far in the field by himself. 

Which is why Carey is currently on a plane, with a far too cheerful PK sitting next to him and a disgruntled Chucky pushing away Gally’s elbow as he tries to sleep. 

“I do not like planes,” he hisses to Carey through the seats. Carey rolls his eyes.

“And I do not like that this sensitive mission has turned into a field trip,” Carey hisses back, “Yet here we are. All aboard the goddamn magical yellow school bus.”

Chucky kicks the back of his seat. 

PK is typing something on his computer, because of course he is. Carey leans over to look.

“How do you even have internet up here?” 

PK just gives him a look that says something like _why do you doubt me_.

“Brendan stop elbowing me or I’ll shoot you myself,” Chucky snaps, louder than probably intended.

Carey notices someone at the front turn their head in piqued interest. Probably an Air Marshal. 

He slinks down in his seat, pulls his hood further down over his face. He’s so glad this is a short flight.

: : 

“Do you have your earpiece turned on this time?” PK snarks.

Carey ignores him, keeps his head down, and ducks through the crowd, “Obviously.”

“Keep it on,” PK says, “This is dangerous turf.”

“This is _Pittsburgh_ ,” Carey replies.

He’s tailing a figure in front of him, separated by at least 10 others at all times that cross his path on the sidewalk. Carey’s been following them for about two blocks now, watched them get out of their car exactly when PK had said they would, and following the same route.

He has a feeling he knows where they’re going. 

“Is this a good idea, Carey?” PK asks again, sounding worried.

“For fuck’s sake…” Carey hisses, and removes the earpiece and drops it into his pocket.

PK’s gonna be pissed later, but right now, Carey needs to concentrate.

He tails the guy for another few streets, stopping and admiring far too many news stands or map signs whenever he thinks they’re about to turn around. He also, at some point, stole someone’s hat as a cover. 

Suddenly, they take a sharp left, down different, shaded alley. Carey sighs. Of course it’s an alley. Couldn’t it have been a well lit, crowded, area? No. Always an alley.

He takes a swift turn after them, and is promptly punched in the face.

Not how he was expecting this to go. 

He stumbles back, and someone grabs the lapels of his shirt and hauls him foward. He kicks out, catching them in the shin, then delivers a right hook back at them. They fall backwards into the wall, springing off, and slamming Carey right against the opposite brick wall, arm at his throat.

“Why are you following me?” they snarl, and Carey feels something digging into his hipbone.

“Not to be a cliche or anything,” Carey says, “But is that a gun in your hand or are you just--”

“Shut up,” Crosby says, and digs the gun in a bit further, “What are you doing here?”

“Enjoying everything this city has to offer,” Carey says. Sidney stares at him, blank faced, and Carey sighs, “Also I have an important matter to discuss with you.”

Sidney doesn’t respond, just moves his hand around to where Carey’s gun is, and takes it out. He disarms it and puts into his jacket, then reaches into Carey’s pocket to remove the earpiece. Sidney drops it to the ground and crushes it with his foot.

Carey winces, “PK is gonna be so pissed.”

“Sorry,” Sidney says, and he does sound it, “But I can’t have any followers. Again.”

Carey doesn’t get a chance to respond before Sidney knocks his head back against the wall, without warning. 

Blackness rushes up to meet him. 

: : 

There’s two voices arguing when reality starts to drift back to Carey.

“What did you do, Sid?”

“I knocked him out.”

“Why?”

“So he didn’t know where we were going!”

“Blindfold was not good enough, yes?” 

“Also he was being a smart ass. He was annoying me.”

“Tape over mouth?”

“I don’t carry these things on my person, Geno! The wall was convenient.”

“Hey,” a third voice joins them, “You better hope you haven’t broken him.”

“Not our agent,” the voice dubbed Geno says, “Not our problem.”

“He’ll be fine,” says the voice Carey recognises as Sidney. 

Carey opens his eyes, blinks at the metal ceiling. Sid’s face appears in his view, frowning, “Price?”

Carey groans. His head throbs. The smell of smoke drifts in his nose, and he groans again. Not now.

Someone prods at his head, “Your wound is stitched, bandaged. Nasty gash, but not too deep. Sid underestimated the amount of damage he caused. I don’t get it, you’re the best shot in North America, but you can’t knock out one guy?”

“Shut up, Flower,” Sid responds, and moves his finger in front of Carey’s eyes. “His pupil’s aren’t dilated.”

“Oh well, good,” Flower says, “Just because you’ve had a million concussions you can discharge patients at will, huh?”

“Patient?” Carey asks, voice scraping at his throat.

“Sorry,” Flower says, “Technically you’re a prisoner.”

He’s not wrong. Carey’s wrists are tied to the chair, as are his feet. His head wobbles on his neck, stiff from being tipped back for so long.

He looks around the room. Sid is standing not far from him, and the medic- Flower- is to his other side. The room looks fairly compact, metal walls, one door, a line of computers and monitors along one wall. There’s a very tall man leaning against a table, eyeing the situation. Probably the aforementioned Geno. He looks familiar.

“Can I ask why?” Carey says.

“You were annoying me,” Sid says, “Also, I’m not in the business of trusting people.”

Carey just looks at him incredulously, “We’ve worked together before!”

“Yeah, and since then, someone has been leaking names of agents off of a stupid drive that was meant to be under _your_ agency’s care!” Sid yells, “For all we know, _you’ve_ been leaking those names!”

Carey splutters, “Why would I do that?”

“There is a mole in your agency,” Geno says, while Sid just glares, “Could be you.”

“It’s definitely not me,” Carey says. 

“You drop off the map,” Geno continues, “No trace of you. Then, you come back, no warning, and this is happening? It is very suspicious. So, here you are. And you will tell us what you know.”

Carey just looks at him, then looks at Sid, back at him, then back at Sid, “Where did you get this guy? The KGB’s Finest store?”

Sid looks _pissed_. Carey immediately regrets his words as he stalks over, pushing his arm into Carey’s chest.

“You better tell us what you know, Price,” he says, “We don’t play around.”

“I know what you would know,” Carey says, “The bad-cop act doesn’t suit you, Sid.”

“I don’t believe you,” Sid says.

“Then I don’t know how to help you.”

Sid just glares at him, “Then you can stay here until you figure out how to help us.”

He turns on his heel, Geno follows him, and after an exasperated look and a handle of French-Canadian curses, Flower goes as well.

And Carey is left tied to a chair, staring at the door because he honestly cannot believe this is happening to him.

He’d assumed Crosby would’ve known something about the drive, but he also knows something about the mole. He’s mad, mad at Carey, mad at Carey’s organization for something. 

The other guy. The Russian. Geno. 

His face looks familiar.

His name is one of the ones that got leaked.

Evgeni Malkin. KGB defect. 

Carey winces, he doubts Sid would have the drive then. What he does know about it is out of the question. Sid doesn’t trust Carey, doesn’t trust his organization.

Carey’s back to square fucking one.

So he sits. He sits. He stares at the stupid beeping computers. He tries to loosen his bonds, tries to hop-jump with the chair, but he has no luck. His head still hurts, so he tries not to fall over in the chair and aggravate the injury. At least it’s stopped bleeding.

He’s so bored. He regrets taking the earpiece out. He’ll tell PK every day that he regrets it, that he was wrong. 

PK. 

God, he’s missed PK. 

He wishes--

The door opens. Carey straightens up.

A tall, blonde haired boy walks in, stopping just in the doorway, looking as bored as Carey feels. 

“Carey Price?” he asks. He sounds Finnish.

“Yeah,” Carey answers. 

The boy nods, and walks in with his hands raised above his head. 

Behind him, Chucky spots Carey and grins, “Pricey!”

He’s still got the gun pressed the Finnish boy’s back, and he shuts the door and directs him to sit down, and then comes over to Carey.

“What happened?” he asks, “PK is really mad.”

“Got ambushed,” Carey admits, and shakes his limbs, “Hey, can you untie me, maybe? I don’t want to stick around here.”

Chucky makes quick work of his bonds and Carey rubs the feeling back into his wrists, “Did you bring me a gun?”

Chucky frowns, “What happened to yours?”

“Sid probably still has it.”

“Sid?”

“Crosby.”

“Oh,” Chucky says, “He’s a legend.”

“He’s a very pissed off legend,” Carey says, “Thinks we leaked his partner’s details.”

“You didn’t?” pipes up the Finnish boy from across the room.

“No,” Carey says. The boy just shrugs.

Chucky goes over and grabs the boy’s gun, and gives it to Carey, “Use this.”

As they leave, Chucky looks back, “Sorry about all of this, Olli.”

Olli just shrugs again as they leave.

“How do you know him?” Carey asks.

“Mission,” Chucky replies, “Very confidential. Let’s get out of here before Crosby finds us and locks us both up in revenge.”

Thankfully, their way out of the Pittsburgh division is relatively clear, only a few random office agents that don’t blink at them as they walk past. Carey is relieved. He’s good, but he’s also injured and Sid is scary when he’s angry. 

“How did you find me?” he asks Chucky as they finally jump in the getaway car Carey _knows_ Chucky stole.

“Tracking device,” he says, “In your wrist. PK was annoyed Gally didn’t know about it.”

Carey frowns, “Gally should know. You have one as well.”

Chucky just shrugs as he’s driving, “Well, it doesn’t matter. PK is gonna kill you for turning off your earpiece.”

Carey sinks in the passenger seat, “Great.”

: :

“We’ve got a problem,” Gally says as they wind back up at the hotel being used as temporary headquarters.

“God, the day I never have to hear those words again cannot come soon enough,” Carey slams the door shut behind him and Chucky, “What’s wrong now?”

PK appears from the adjoining room, “Pricey! Why the hell did you turn your earpiece off?!”

Carey steps back, “Pressing problem first, murder later.”

“No,” PK says, stalking forward, “Murder now. What did I say, man? Never turn it off! You’re lucky you were still in one piece when Alex found you--”

“Guys!” Chucky interrupts, leaning over Gally’s shoulder, “The next leak is out.”

That shuts up PK quick. Carey stares at them, “What? We had more--”

“Whoever is leaking them didn’t want to wait,” Gally chimes in, “Look.”

The new video is already running, each new agent and all the detailed information out there for the world to see. 

“This guy means business,” PK says.

Carey’s not listening. 

Brandon Prust’s name and location flash up on the screen.

: : : :

**part iii: the mole**

: : : :

They can’t leave straight away. After a forward call to Max, he tells them to stay put for the night, and catch the first plane back to Montreal in the morning. 

Carey can’t get through to Prusty. His phone just rings. 

Maripier, Max says, is fine. She’s staying at the organization for protection, and she doesn’t appear outwardly fazed by it. It’s strange. Prusty got assigned to a different agency, but he’s still _theirs_.

So Carey sits in his hotel bed and stares at the wall and tries so very hard not to panic.

“Pricey,” PK murmurs from the other bed, “I can hear you stressing from over here.”

Carey doesn't answer him, just exhales slowly. There's a pause, then PK starts cursing and kicking off the covers. He switches on the bedside lamp and gets up to the stand beside Carey’s bed. 

“You not sleeping will hurt Brandon more than it will help him,” PK says, “Get some rest.”

Carey shrugs, “Not like I’d get much rest anyway.”

PK frowns at him, “Carey…”

“Whatever,” Carey says, “Go back to sleep, PK.”

PK, instead, sits on the edge of Carey’s bed. He’s got this concerned, worried look in his eyes and Carey wishes he’d just pretended he’d gone to sleep. 

“You’ve been off since you came back,” PK says, “Carey, what’s wrong? You barely look at me.”

Carey shakes his head, “It doesn’t matter.”

PK groans and turns his head away in frustration. As he does, the light from the lamp bounces off the side of his head, something dark and metal near his ear. Carey feels ice in his chest, and he lurches forward.

“What’s…” he begins to say.

PK looks at him in alarm, “What? What’s wrong?”

Carey reaches out, traces the shell of his ear, “Is that…”

“An implant?” PK finishes, confused, “Yeah? You haven’t noticed?”

Carey shakes his head numbly. He’s been… distracted. 

“Why?” he asks. His voice is quiet.

PK shrugs, “Explosion shredded the inside of my ear.”

It’s like the bottom of his stomach drops out. Explosion. His entire body feels tight. 

“From,” he begins, and clears his throat, “From…”

He can’t say it. He can’t. 

“From the last time I saw you?” PK says, sounding unfazed, “And everything kinda went to shit? Yeah, it was a huge explosion. Woke up from my coma two weeks later, about 90% hearing loss in that ear. The implant helps some, but it can’t rebuild the ear.” 

Carey can’t breathe. His hands are shaking. 

PK doesn’t seem to notice, “I mean, almost not the worst of it, you know? The doctors say I almost died so it could’ve been worse. I have some kickass scars as well, do you want to see-- hey, Carey? You okay?”

No, Carey is not.

This is what he’s been trying to avoid. For months. For, he hoped, the rest of his living days. 

He can smell smoke again.

“Pittsburgh,” he says to himself. PK frowns, reaching out for him, “Room 216. November. It’s November. Pittsburgh. November.”

“Carey,” PK sounds alarmed, “Carey! Snap out of it, man!”

_Carey. Please…_

There are hands on his arms, comforting, but he can’t breathe. He can’t stop the fire from crawling up the walls, burning the place down, and PK is… PK is…

Right in front of him. Looking so worried. 

Looking _alive_.

Carey lunges forward and kisses him.

PK makes a noise of surprise, hands still wrapped around Carey’s arms. Carey presses against him, insistent, and then he pulls back slightly.

“What, what are you doing, Pricey?” PK stutters against Carey’s mouth.

“You’re alive,” Carey says, but he doesn’t know if he’s saying it to himself or PK. He runs his hand down PK’s shirt, the other feeling the rasp of stubble on his cheek, “I thought I killed you.”

PK leans back further to look at him, “What are you talking about?”

Carey pulls him in again, “That mission. I thought you were gonna die. They told me you were gonna die. And I… I couldn’t fucking…”

PK sighs, “Carey…”

“No,” Carey interrupts, “It was my fault. I got cocky. I almost killed you. I made you half-fucking-deaf for god’s sake.”

PK pulls away entirely now, and holds Carey at arm’s length, “Don’t say that.”

“No, but I did! It was my fucking fault!”

PK swore quietly, and shook Carey slightly, “No. It was my decision to be a part of that mission. I knew the risks, Carey.”

“It was my decision to be involved with you,” Carey blurts out, “PK. I was emotionally compromised by you and I can’t do that--”

PK just stares at him. Carey’s heart is still racing, his hands are still shaking, but he can no longer see fire. He can no longer smell smoke.

PK is still staring at him.

“What?”

“You were _emotionally compromised_ by me?” PK asks, his voice incredulously, “What? Was I a mission inconvenience?”

Carey gapes at him, “PK…”

PK stands up, further away from Carey, and he looks mad, “Whatever, man.”

Carey can’t say a word as PK grabs his stuff and leaves. He just stares at the door, blinking as Gally finally walks in, arms full of his own things, looking very confused.

“What happened?” he asks.

Carey shakes his head, “Doesn’t matter.”

Gally sighs and climbs into PK’s bed, “Okay.”

It’s silence, and then Gally says, “You worried about this leak situation?”

Carey sighs, “Whoever has that drive. I need to stop them.”

Gally nods, “Well, at least you know it’s in the agency?”

Carey frowns, pauses, “What? How do you know that?”

Gally looks startled, “The mole?”

“Oh,” Carey says, “Right.”

He wishes PK was back. Gally yawns, and flicks off the lamp, “Go to sleep, Pricey.”

It takes hours before Carey can.

: :

The headquarters isn’t in as much chaos as Carey expected, but he figures that’s him projecting his own anxieties onto the situation.

PK manages to take the video down back in his lab, still not talking to Carey, but the damage has already been done. Prusty is still not answering his phone.

The headquarters run the same, operate the same. Max says that there’s nothing they can do- Vancouver says that Prust’s out on assignment and the best they can do is notify Montreal when they get in contact with him. 

Carey feels like this is all a ticking time bomb, waiting for something to happen. They should be acting before something bad happens. Carey should be acting before it happens. 

“Have you seen Brendan?” Chucky asks him down at the shooting range.

“No,” Carey answers, and shoots the target again. He misses by a mile.

Chucky winces, “Pricey…”

“Do you need anything else, Agent Galchenyuk?” Carey asks.

Chucky looks affronted, and leaves him alone.

Carey feels like he’s going out of his mind. Thinking about PK. Thinking about Prusty. Thinking about how he _shouldn’t_ be back here. 

He kind of wishes he’d died in that god forsaken mission.

He buries his face in his hands, keeps the guns on the other table, and recites where he is, the date, until he can’t think of anything else. 

He’s finally got his breathing under control when he hears his phone beep. Carey sighs in annoyance, expecting it to be Chucky or something, and opens the home screen.

It’s Prusty’s number. With an single address.

_Come to this location, alone, and we won’t kill your friend_

Carey stares at the phone. He opens the number and calls it.

“Agent Price,” the voice says, clearly on an sound mixer, “You have 6 hours to bring yourself to the address, completely alone, or we will kill Agent Prust. No other agents, no backup, no Agent Subban in your ear. Just you. Or Prust dies.”

“Who the hell are you?” Carey spits, heart pounding.

The voice hangs up. They probably thought Carey was tracing the call. 

“Fuck,” he says to the empty room.

He doesn’t have time to do anything, but he manages to leave the headquarters without anyone stopping him. 

He hijacks a car off the sidewalk, and starts driving. He feels numb while he does it, thinks about nothing but getting to the location. 

It’s far way from the headquarters, and he knows the voice must of known that. He wonders if that was the mole. Or a member of the Bruins. He knows whichever way, he’s driving to his death.

It doesn’t matter. They have Prusty. He’s got… 

Prusty was _there_ for him when Carey was (is, he thinks to himself) at his lowest. He can’t let him down. Brandon has a fiancee, who’s counting on him to come home. Carey has no one. Carey has nothing to survive for. 

_PK._

_No_ , he thinks, _PK doesn’t need you. PK is far better off without you_.  


  
He’d be sad though. But he’d move on. Get better. PK would deal with it a lot better than Carey did. 

Carey finally reaches the location and rolls his eyes.

It’s a fucking abandoned apartment lot, because of course it is. He can’t believe he’s going to die in such a cliche. 

He parks the car around the corner, for a getaway just in case, and gets out.

He freezes at the front door.

He’s going to die here. 

Carey swallows nervously, and pulls out his phone. He sends a quick text to PK, not overthinking it, and steels himself.

He enters the building. 

The hallways are completely dark, the windows boarded up. It stinks of stale air and mould, many of the apartments looted and falling apart. A rat runs past him as he makes his way through. An exit sign flashes at him. 

Apartment 11. 

He pushes the creaky door open. The entire room is dark. He can’t see anything, or anybody.

“Prusty?” he calls, stupidly, “Brandon? Are you here?”

He doesn’t get an answer. 

He moves further into the apartment, and stumbles into a living room. There’s nothing there.

The front door slams shut.

Carey spins around, and someone moves at him. He gasps, because it’s not Brandon, it’s not… 

Something smashes into the side of his head and he goes down.

His phone clatters out of his hand, and as the black creeps in, he can see a text from PK pop up on the screen.

_Carey? Carey, where are you?_

: :

_  
“PK!” he yells, “Where are you?”_

_PK comes stumbling out of the room, typing one hand on his laptop, “Pricey, man, we’ve got to get out of here.”_

_“We can’t,” Carey snaps, “Not until we have the files.”_

_PK looks at him aghast, as Carey kicks down another door and swears as it proves to be empty. Like every damn room._

_“We’re going to die here,” PK says, “They’ve set the place to blow.”_

_“They haven’t,” Carey argues, “They don’t know we’re here.”_

_PK lurches forward angrily, “Yes, they do! Their explosives are on my radar, Carey! Look!”_

_He shoves the laptop into Carey’s face, but Carey furiously bats it away._

_“I don’t care,” he spits, “I’m the godamn agent here, Subban. You’re the damn Tech guy. So do your job and let me do mine.”_

_PK recoils, and Carey feels a flash of guilt. He quickly smothers it with the need to complete this damn mission. He will do it._

_He moves on and tries to bash down another door._

_“We’re going to die if we stay here!” PK yells, “Why do you not care?”_

_“Then leave!” Carey screams, “Leave!”_

_PK looks sad, and Carey finally breaks into the room. He spots the folders in the corner, and he hurries forward to grab them. When he turns around, PK is staring at him._

_“What are you doing?” Carey asks, “I thought you were leaving?”_

_“You’re an idiot,” PK says, “I’m never going to leave you. Not here. Not ever.”_

_Carey gapes at him, “PK…”_

_There’s a loud sound, like a clock going off. The building explodes around them, and suddenly Carey can’t see anymore._

__

: :

He wakes up, head throbbing, face pressed to the gross floor of the apartment building, and his phone lying next to him. His gun is gone.

He groans, tries to lift his head and remember where he is. 

His phone rings. He can’t read the name on the screen; his vision is so blurry.

Carey grabs it and presses it to his ear, “PK?”

“No?” Prusty sounds confused, “It’s Brandon. Are you okay?”

Something cold rushes through Carey, “Prusty?”

“Yeah,” he says, “What’s wrong?”

Carey struggles to his feet, and almost collapses into the wall, “Where are you?”

“Vancouver,” Brandon answers, “They told me about the leak, I’ve already told Maripier I’m safe. Luckily, they pulled me before anything could go wrong.”

“But…” Carey says, “Your phone.”

“My phone?” Brandon asks, “It’s the thing I’m using to call you. Carey, are you okay?”

Carey doesn’t know, “Brandon, recite your number.”

He does, and Carey keeps him on as he flicks to his contacts, and finds Brandon’s number. He looks at the details.

It’s the wrong number. The number was changed. 

His heart in his throat.

“Pricey? Pricey, are you there? What’s going on?” Brandon demands.

“Something’s wrong,” Carey says, “I’ve got to get back to headquarters.”

“Pricey--”

“I’ll call you back,” Carey says, and hangs up.

He rushes outside, to find the car he stole and hid still there, thank god. He starts the engine and peels away, on a one track mind back to the headquarters.

He tries to call Max. No answer.

Chucky. No answer.

He tries PK next.

“Come on, PK,” he says, “Pick up.”

There’s no answer.

He puts his foot down on the gas.

: :

It’s chaos when he gets there. 

Desks are overturned, giant holes are ripped through walls, paper tossed everywhere. Computers spark at him.

People are bleeding out on the floor, some moaning, others far too still.

Carey makes the quickest detour to the lab. 

As he runs there, he trips over something warm, moving feebly.

“Chucky?” he gasps, reaching for the wounded agent.

Chucky looks at him with pained eyes, holding his side. Even that can’t stop the gush of blood between his fingers. 

Carey rips off his jacket and presses it to Chucky’s side, eliciting an agonized groan from him.

“Chucky,” he says, “Alex, stay with me. What happened?”

Chucky’s eyes are rolling in his head, but he flails out with one hand to grab at Carey, “It was… something exploded…. computer… or something… I…”

He’s too pale. Carey presses harder, “Come on, Galchenyuk.”

There’s too much blood. And Carey has to keep moving, he can’t stay here. 

If he moves, Alex will die.

“I don’t know what to do,” Carey says to Chucky. Chucky doesn’t answer, and his grip is getting weaker. 

“Alex, stay with me, please,” he begs. 

Someone touches his shoulder. He spins around, grabbing for Chucky’s fallen gun. 

Maripier looks back at him, her forehead bleeding and her face dusty, but her wide eyes determined and angry. She moves Carey’s trembling hands, and presses down with her own.

“Brandon’s okay,” is the first thing he says to her, voice shaky.

She smiles tearfully at him, “I know.”

Carey can hear Chucky’s breath rattling in his chest. He doesn’t want to leave.

“Go,” Maripier says, “Go! Find the bastard who did this.”

“I don’t want to leave you undefended,” he says.

Maripier smiles at him, and pulls a gun out from her pants, “As if I’m undefended, Price. Now go.”

He leaves her there, pressing bloodied hands to Chucky’s side, and heads for the lab.

It’s even quieter down there.

All Carey can hear are the sounds of sparking computers. The smell of smoke fills his nose, but he knows it’s real this time.

He raises his gun as he pushes open the door. They’re steady.

The lab is dark, the overhead lights flickering. Carey looks around warily.

“PK!” he yells.

He can see the slumped form on the ground, and he rushes over.

“Please no, please no, please no,” he begs, turning PK over. 

He’s breathing, chest rising and falling, and when Carey presses his fingers against his pulse, it’s strong. 

Carey breathes out a sigh of relief, and buries his face in PK’s chest. 

“I’m so sorry,” he says, “For everything. PK. I’m so sorry.”

“Carey…” comes the strained voice from above him.

Carey’s head shoots up, and PK’s bleary eyes are focused on him.

“Oh my god,” Carey says, and kisses him. “I was so scared,” he admits, and PK raises a hand to touch his cheek.

“Still here,” he whispers, “I’m never going to leave you.”

Carey’s heart hurts.

“What happened, PK?” he asks.

PK’s eyes widen in realization, “Oh god.”

He tries to sit up, but Carey won’t let him, “Don’t hurt yourself, PK, just tell me.”

“I found the drive,” PK hisses, “I found it, _here_.”

Carey stares at him, “What… how?”

“I was looking for a part for my laptop,” PK says, “It must’ve got mixed up back from Pittsburgh. But I found the drive, in the desk, and I… I tried to find you. But all hell broke loose.”

The door to the lab opens, and the hair on the back of Carey’s neck prickles. He spins around, aiming the gun.

It’s just Gally, hands raised above his head.

“What’s going on?” he asks.

“We’ve been compromised,” Carey says, and tries to find any injuries on PK, “PK, are you having trouble breathing?”

PK tugs on Carey’s wrist.

“Compromised?” Gally asks.

“The mole,” Carey says, “They got me out of headquarters with a phone call. Told me they had Prusty… but...”

Something dawns on him. He keeps one hand on PK’s chest as he pulls out his phone.

“My numbers got switched,” he says, “Caller I.D. said Prusty, so I thought they had his phone. But someone must’ve switched the numbers.”

PK frowns from the floor, “Who?”

“Someone with access,” Carey says, “Gally, guard the door!”

Gally pulls out his gun and goes to the door.

“Call the number,” PK says, “See if they answer.”

It’s a long shot, but Carey presses the phone to his ear, “Gally, make sure you guard that door! PK, did you find out who the mole was.”

The phone is ringing distantly in Carey’s ear.

PK tugs on his wrist again, “Carey…”

Carey can hear the phone ringing. 

He can hear it ringing.

Outside of his phone.

The high-pitched, classic telephone noise. 

He can hear it ringing in the room.

The phone goes slack in Carey’s hand. PK’s grip is beginning to hurt. 

The number he rang, who rung him and told him they had Brandon, the person who left him in that warehouse, who blew up headquarters. The number that got switched.

The phone is ringing in this room. 

Carey can feel his heart in his ears as he looks over his shoulder. He hangs up the phone. The ringing dies.

Gallagher has the gun trained on him. 

“Hands above your head,” he says.

Carey does. PK’s hand falls away.

“Brendan,” he says, “Why?”

Gally looks at him blankly, “Do you really wanna hear why?”

Carey feels shaken, “You. You were on the mission with the rookie who died. You stole the drive from him.”

Gally’s eyes flash, “They didn’t tell me what I was dealing. What kind of _information_ I was dealing with. The extent of it. But he told me. And…. he had no idea the kind of power you could harness with that.”

“You killed him,” Carey fills in, “And took the drive.”

Gally nods, “They entrusted it to him. He didn’t know shit.” 

Carey’s mind is reeling, “You tried to get the Bruins to take me out… wait.”

A horrible thought occurs to him.

“It was you, wasn’t it? The sniper?”

Gally nods, “I didn’t realize Bergeron would give me up. Fucking rat.”

Carey owes Patrice a bouquet of flowers.

“And you switched the numbers in my phone. In the hotel room when you and PK switched rooms. You told Sid I was tailing you.”

“Crosby wasn’t easy to convince,” Gally explains, “He doesn’t trust me as far as he can throw me. But after awhile, I convinced him that you were the leak. Told him you were doing it for love. It’s something that he relates to.”

“And you leaked the information. About Malkin. The others. Prusty. Why?” Carey asks.

Gally looks furious.

“You think being a spy is _heroic_? That taking teenagers and training them to be soldiers is a noble thing?” he spits, “It’s brainwashing. This is a cult, Price. You’re a warrior for a fucking cult. Does that make you feel good?”

Carey stands up, slowly, hands above his head. Gally doesn’t take the gun off him.

“We help people, Brendan,” he says, “We save people.”

Gally sneers, “That’s what you think. I figured it out, Price.”

“So you leaked the agents?” Carey counters, “Endangered their lives?”

“The agents live in secrecy and shadows!” Gally says, “It’s dangerous! We’re killers. All of us.” 

“So you blew up headquarters?” Carey asks.

“It starts with one,” Gally says, “Like dominoes.”

Carey looks at him. He doesn’t recognize him.

“You killed Alex, Brendan,” Carey says softly, “I watched him die.”

Carey can see Gally swallow, turn his head slightly, “He’s… he’s a spy. Like everyone else.”

“That’s bullshit, Brendan!” Carey shouts, “You loved him!”

“Shut up!” Gally screams, “Shut up!”

“You shot him, and you killed him!” Carey yells, “He’s dead, Brendan! That wasn’t part of your plan, was it?”

Gally’s face is going red, and he waves the gun, “Move over here, Price. Now!”

Carey moves along, hands still in the air, and continues.

“You tried to convince him, didn’t you?” Carey says, “Told him all this shit about redemption and freedom. And he saw through it, didn’t he? And you told yourself that if you couldn’t have him, then no one could.”

“Shut up,” Gally growls, “Get on your knees.”

Carey stares him in the eyes, “If you’re gonna execute me, Brendan, then do it. I’m not kneeling for you.”

Gally raises the gun higher, “Fine. Have it your way.”

There’s a clatter, and PK is there, on his feet, Carey’s gun on Gallagher, “Don’t do it, Gally.”

Gally doesn’t flinch, just keeps his gun on Carey, “Or what, Subban?”

“I’ll shoot you,” PK says, his voice angry. 

Gally laughs, “I’ll kill him before you even have a chance. You pull that trigger. I pull mine. Is killing me worth Price?”

“He’ll shoot me anyway, PK!” Carey says, “Do it!”

PK doesn’t even look at him, “No. Put the gun down, Gally. You don’t want to die.”

Gally smirks, “You won’t shoot me. Not when Price will die.”

Carey feels frustrated, “PK. PK, take him down! I’m dead anyway! Just do it!”

“No, Carey,” PK says firmly, “He’s not going to kill you. I’m not going to let you die.”

Gally laughs. Carey muffles a scream of frustration.

“Shoot him!” he yells, “PK! Just do it!”

Gally keeps the gun level, wraps his finger around the trigger, and it’s like time slows down. 

Carey can see everything. Can see Gally pull the trigger, the flash of the gun exploding, can see PK yell, can hear the double sound of the guns. He falls to the side, to try and dodge the bullet, and sees a flash of brown hair behind Gally.

Something hurts. 

He can see fire and smoke and an empty warehouse and Sid’s furious face and Maripier’s gentle smile and Chucky’s bleeding side, crimson in his mouth, and PK, PK, PK. PK lying on the floor, PK yelling for him to wake up, PK lying in his bed, PK’s brilliant smile and his laugh and his concentration as he works on something new, PK curled under a blanket on Carey’s couch, PK calling him super spy, PK saying he’s never, ever going to leave him. 

“Carey!”

Everything rushes back into motion. 

But everything is still.

The room is quiet.

Maripier is behind Gally, gun in her hands, her eyes hard. 

Gally looks shocked, clutching at his stomach. Red blossoms through, and his eyes go wide before he collapses to his knees, then over. 

Carey doesn’t know if he’s alive.

PK’s hand is outstretched for Carey. 

“Carey,” he says, again, “Are you okay?”

His voice sounds weird. Like Carey is hearing it underwater. PK looks concerned. He moves his mouth, wordlessly, and Carey frowns.

“What?” he asks, but he can’t hear his own voice.

His chest hurts. 

Sharp, stabbing pains. His breath rattles, he coughs, brings his hand up to cover it. Red dribbles over his lips, onto his skin. His chest is sticky. Red. Why has there been so much red lately?

Someone is yelling his name. Maripier is rushing towards him, but PK gets there first. His hand closes around Carey’s just as the floor rushes up to meet him. His vision is going gray, and PK’s face is the last thing he sees as, once again, the silence meets him at the halfway point.

: :

He dreams of PK, sitting beside his bed, sleeping or typing or just waiting. It changes every time. 

But he’s always there. 

Carey wants to wake up, this time.

: :

Everything fucking hurts. 

Specifically, his head and his damn ribs.

The pain drags Carey from unconsciousness, and he hates it for doing that. He opens his eyes and blinks at the white, unfamiliar ceiling. 

He tries to turn his head, but the slight jostle sends shooting pains through him. He makes a pained noise. 

Suddenly, PK is there, looking down at him, “Carey? Hey, man, you’re finally awake.”

Carey is so fucking happy to see him.

“Hey,” he tries to say, but his throat is so dry that it comes out as a rasped whisper. 

“Oh, shit,” PK says, “The nurses said you’d be thirsty. I have ice chips, here.”

He grabs a white cup and offers one to Carey, who obliges by opening his mouth. The ice is cool and lovely in his mouth. After a few, he can finally speak.

“Where am I?” he asks. His voice is still hoarse.

“Hospital,” PK says, “Because the medbay was partly destroyed.”

Carey exhales as everything comes back to him. The headquarters. Gally. 

“Gally was the mole,” he says. 

PK looks sad, “Yeah. No one knew.”

Carey shakes his head, “I should’ve known.”

PK puts the cup down and puts his hand on Carey’s face, forcing him look PK in the eyes, “Carey. You couldn’t have known. He’s been a mole for awhile now, way before you even came back. No one knew. It’s not your fault, and I will punch you if you say it is. Okay?”

Carey sighs, and nods, “It’s just…”

“Yeah.”

His ribs hurt, and he winces, pressing a hand to them, “What happened to me?”

“Gally shot you,” PK says, “You moved, so it only got your right lung. It collapsed, but if you hadn’t of moved, he would have gotten you in the heart. You’d be dead.”

Carey inhales sharply, “Wow.”

“Yeah, also you have at least two head injuries from the past couple of days. Max is really pissed about that one, by the way. You should’ve reported to the medbay after Crosby KO-ed you in Pittsburgh.”

“There wasn’t any time,” Carey says.

“What about the second head injury?” PK asks.

“Gally lured me out of headquarters,” Carey admits, “I was so stupid. He must’ve knocked me out.”

PK grimaces, “When you left. You texted me… I thought…”

Carey looks at him, “What?”

PK shrugs, “I thought maybe… it sounded like a goodbye, Carey. I thought you had punched your own ticket early, so to speak.” 

Carey feels horrified, “No. God. I mean, yeah, it was a goodbye. I thought they were gonna kill me and set Prusty free. But it was a trap, and…”

Something occurs to him, “Gally should’ve killed me there. But he didn’t.”

“Scared?” PK offers.

“No,” Carey says, “You texted me back. He realized that he didn’t have much time to get to headquarters when he saw it.”

He grins, “You saved my life, PK.”

Again. 

“Yeah, well,” PK says, “The things you do for love.”

Carey has missed him so much. 

He wishes he could kiss him, pull him down to him, but he’s stuck in this damn hospital bed. His IV starts itching. 

Suddenly, panic grips his heart.

“Oh god,” he says. 

PK lurches forward, “What? What? What’s wrong, Carey?”

“Chucky,” Carey breathes, “He wasn’t dead when I left him, I was just trying to scare Gally… but he was dying. I left him with Maripier. And she shot Brendan… is he? He’s not…”

PK looks sad.

_Oh, god_

“Chucky’s not doing well,” PK says, “He lost a lot of blood, and from what I heard, they had to resuscitate him a few times. Maripier thought he had died. But… it’s not looking good, Carey.”

Carey feels terrible. PK makes a wounded noise.

“Carey, listen to me. This isn’t your fault. It’s not.”

“If he dies, it’s on me,” Carey says, “Ok, it’s--”

PK kisses him.

Which is great, but also jostles Carey’s ribs and head.

“Ow,” he says, and PK moves back immediately.

“Oh, I’m so sorry! Shit!” he says, and sits back down.

Carey stares at him, “You’re too far away now.”

PK rolls his eyes, “Don’t go going sappy on me, super spy.”

Carey grins at him. 

It’s quiet.

“Hey,” PK says, “Did you mean it?”

“Mean what?” Carey asks.

“The text. The goodbye text.”

PK pulls out his phone and brings up the text, like Carey can’t remember it. To be fair, he’s suffered two head injuries. But still… you don’t forget _that_.

“Of course I meant it,” Carey says, truthfully.

PK’s eyes are wide and he gets up again to wrap Carey in a hug. It’s warm, and loving, and Carey has missed this, all of this. Even with the tender ribs.

“Ow,” he says again, but PK doesn’t let go.

“Deal with it,” he says, his voice sounding suspiciously hoarse, “I’m hugging you.”

They stay like that for a good long while, Carey burying his face into PK’s neck and breathing him in. He never wants to let go. 

“For what it’s worth,” PK says, “I love you too, you idiot. Never stopped.”

Carey’s throat goes tight, “Kiss me.”

PK does.

: :

Brandon is overjoyed to see him.

“Still in one piece, I see!” he says, bounding into the room.

“Oh, god,” Carey says, “I could barely deal with you over the phone.”

“Don’t lie,” Prusty says, “You’ve missed me.”

“No, I replaced you with your much better looking fiancee.” 

Prusty fakes being stabbed, “Right through the heart, Carey.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Carey says, “How are you doing?”

“Well,” Prusty begins, “My identity is out there for all to see, so that needs to be changed. I’ll probably drop the business as well, move with Maripier somewhere safer, become an accountant, start the quiet life.”

Carey laughs, “And for all the shit you gave me.”

Prusty puts his feet up on the bed when he sits down in PK’s vacated chair, “But this is right, Carey, for me to hang up the gun. I’m not running away. _You_ were running away.”

Carey doesn’t look at him, “Well, I’m not. Anymore.”

“Yeah, apparently PK set up shop in here,” Prusty says, “I’m glad, dude.”

Carey shrugs, “Tell me about headquarters.”

Prusty sighs, “Max is trying to get it under control. You’ve moved, obviously, to another location while the government fixes your bombed one. Some of the agents have been assigned to Vancouver, Toronto, Edmonton, Calgary- the Canadian branches. It’s a right mess, to be honest. Other agencies are calling for blood, because it was your agent that was leaking the information.”

“The drive?” asks Carey.

Prusty shrugs, “Max has it somewhere. Probably to be destroyed.”

“For the best.” Carey says. He can see the glint in Gally’s eyes over it.

“It’s a shitshow, how it went down,” Prusty says, “The whole thing.”

Carey agrees numbly.

“Maybe you should’ve stayed in retirement,” Prusty continues, “Saved yourself the mess.”

Carey thinks about it. 

He’s been thinking about it for days now, in this hospital bed.

“No,” he says, startling Prusty, “No, I’m done with that.”

A grin spreads on Brandon’s face, “What?”

“Like you said,” Carey says, “I wasn’t retiring for the right reasons. I’m gonna stop running away now. I’ve got no reason to.”

“You’ve always been happier as a spy,” Brandon says, “With PK. I’ve never seen you so miserable before. But this…”

He pauses.

“PK’s good for you, Carey,” he continues, “I’ve always thought that. And he is. He makes you happy.”

He leans forward, serious, “You deserve to be happy, Carey.”

He knows that.

He knows he can be happy, with PK, as a spy. He can let go of what happened, move on. He can still shoot a gun, still be in the business, and still have PK. He knows it’s not impossible. He knows it will be hard. The headquarters have to be rebuilt, the labs. Possible security breaches might have to be dealt with, and any other information Gally leaked has to be stopped. His hands will still shake. He’ll still smell smoke. There’s probably agents out there looking for his head. But he’ll have PK in his ear. He’ll have PK. 

Brandon’s right.

He deserves to be happy. 

“Yeah,” he says to Brandon, “I will be.”

: :

FROM: Carey  
TO: PK

pk

sorry for wha t I said the other night. I didnt mean it. ur not an emotional compromise or a distraction or whatever else u think I meant. I love you. like more than I can breathe. im sorry I almost got u killed. if u died then the good part of me dies. pls forgive me for this. I don't have a choice. i have to do this. please be happy.

i love you

: : : :

**part four: epilogue**

: : : :

Carey wakes up to the sound of banging on the roof of his apartment.

He glares at it, at the sound of noise erupting from all around him. Every fucking day.

His phone beeps. He groans, slaps his hand out for it, and drags it right in front of his eyes.

It’s from Max:

_Get in, right now. There’s a case for you. An Russian agent has gone missing in Washington. They want your help_

Carey groans again and squeezes his eyes shut. His phone beeps.

FROM: Chucky  
_You better get in here, Pricey. Bring PK too._

Carey throws his phone off the bed.

“Who was that?” PK asks, rolling over and staring at Carey.

“Work,” he says, “They want us in. Something in Washington.”

The yelling above won’t stop. PK groans and buries his face in Carey’s shoulder. 

“We need to move,” PK says, “I can’t stand this apartment.”

Carey drops a kiss to the top of his head, “Whatever you want.”

“Then let’s go back to sleep.”

Carey hears his phone beep again from the floor. He sighs and puts the pillow over his head. 

“For five minutes,” he promises, “Then, we have to go to work.”

PK slides an arm across his chest. Carey grins.

The phone beeps again.

“Babe?” PK asks, voice sweet.

“Yeah?”

“Shoot the phone.”

 

**END**

**Author's Note:**

> title from "all the things lost" by ms mr
> 
> i got really attached to this verse, so there might be more of it. stay tuned. 
> 
> WARNINGS:
> 
> \- a lot of swearing  
> \- Graphic description of PTSD stemming from a past traumatic event where one character is almost killed. Detailed description of panic attacks included.  
> \- Discussion of injuries from that event, including deafness from an explosion.  
> \- Graphic description of injuries from gun-shot wounds.  
> \- Death of a minor character (rest in pieces, gally)  
> \- Suicidal ideations at one point in a character's internal monologue.  
> \- One character believes that another character said goodbye via text because they were going to kill themselves. Only mentioned in one line, with a euphemism, and is quickly cleared up as being an incorrect presumption.


End file.
